A Mystery Challenge

A Mystery Challenge was announced. I signed up, posted my envelope away, and waited in anticipation for the mail. The days wound by. No mail! Mail arrives from New Zealand quicker than from 'the other side' of Australia!

My daughter arrived from the southern city. As My Man has had several visits to the regional hospital, finally being admitted [again] today for an undefined period] he collected the mail before making one of his 'wasted' trips to hospital, thus my envelope with details of the mystery challenge didn't arrive until late.

This evening I carefully read the instructions. I could visualise how the article should look upon completion, but, not wishing to waste the lovely fabric included with the pattern and instructions, I have begun a 'trial article'. It is an interesting exercise making something one has no idea of how it should finally look ... though my visualisation is usually reasonably correct. And no, I am not going to post a photo of this mystery article, nor divulge what it is! Some things are best kept secret!

So ... as I haven't sewn for a few days, but instead have gone galavanting to the northern city; almost doing the 'tourist thing'. My usual visit to the city entails grocery shopping [essential to maintain life], or shopping at my favourite fabric shop [essential to maintain mental health ... boredom is boring, and doing nothing creative is boring], this trip allowed us to make a close encounter with a spectacular memorial that is extremely relevant to Geraldton.

We visited the Memorial to the men on board the HMAS Sydney who, on 19th November 1941, lost their lives when the Sydney was involved in an encounter with the HSK Kormoran. On 16th March 2008 the ship was found 112 nautical miles off Steep Point, WA. A memorial was erected commemorating the sixty years on 19th November 2001.

The memorial is situated high on a Geraldton hill, and consists of a dome that has a seabird for each of the 645 crew lost. A sculpture of a wife looking out to sea searching for any sign of her man is a poignant work of art; one cannot help but feel completely engaged with her obvious signs of anxiety ... a furrowed brow, her eyes are clearly pained, she wears around her neck a chain with an anchor and has a wedding ring on her finger ... her clothing is reminiscent of the 1940's. This memorial brings home the agony, and the utter futility of war.

Success

My Man has been home from hospital for over a week now, and while still having to attend Outpatients at the local medical centre, is making progress. Hopefully the massive doses of antibiotics, via the PICC line and Baxter pump will send the infection away ... for good! The diagnosis was osteomyelitis, something a diabetic does not want.

They say good things come in three's. Perhaps the rain that has fallen making the place clean and green to view is number two.

Certainly the third is the parcel that arrived in the post earlier in the week. Just before Christmas Handmade featured some lovely designs, ones that I determined were 'up my alley'. I stictched felt hearts, on a festive theme, and made a hexagon table centre, which turned out good enough to take a photo and send it to the magazine. Imagine my delight when that letter, with photo, gained the status of 'Star Letter"! That a gift was the prize made the win even better.

I waited, heady with anticipation, for my parcel to arrive. Days went by; weeks went by; and slowly my excitment changed to anxiety. Maybe gifts were only a carrot? Surely not. Handmade is a reputable magazine, and I had read letters from others who had received their gift.

Months later I sent an email, received a gracious reply apologising for the delay. There was a reason ... there had been a change of editors. The gift would be mailed forthwith.

On Thursday there was a small card in the postbox ... inside the Post Office was a parcel! It was my gift! Showing great restraint I waited until we arrived home before opening the parcel. What a delightful array of goodies were inside!

There were scrapbooking papers and embellishments, there was a wonderful wooden set of bag handles, a book on embellished applique printed in the USA and using a dime as one of the measurements [will have to find out the size of a dime!], there was a wonderful Puff Quilting Clip set, and a small embroidery of a rooster including embroidery cottons to complete.

I admired the articles many times, took a photo, and admired again, finally putting them away for future use. Though I must have a try with that puff quilting clip! And in the meantime my brain is ticking over as to the best way of using the bag handles ... maybe something rustic with some flowers [to match the flower decoration on the handles] to bring the bag to life?

Surely this is proof things do come in threes?

Books

I have a discussion whirling through my mind; books, wonderful books that take us to places unknown, books that explore emotions and ideas that flit through the mind; to information tomes that are weighty in size and words. How do we personally categorise books?

At a recent book sale I purchased almost thirty books, novels, biographies; all books that I thought I would enjoy, or would give me food for thought ... one, The Boy in Striped Pyjamas, a small volume in size, but huge in all other ways. The cover was drab, the scrip disturbing. A discussion appeared regarding this book. My comment ... "found it different. I won't say I enjoyed it, as it was such a sad tale. But extremely well written and very readable" ... Another commented that they loved the book, and it was that comment that sent me to search my mind.

I didn't love The Boy in Striped Pyjamas. The story was excellent, the writing impeccable; it built up to a climax, one that we expected, but hoped to be incorrect in our expectations. I would recommend that book to anyone, with the rider not to expect to laugh, or even smile.

In saying that I had to explore my reason for not loving the book. It was the sadness.

Today the media concentrates on calamity. Sadness permeates our very lives and if we are caring folk at all, it makes it extremely easy to drift into a pit of despair. While I agree that we must realise that there is sadness, there is uncontrolled anger, it is my considered opinion that a high diet of sad reading material has a similar effect on our soul as obesity does to heart attack. Oh, I do read sad books such as The Boy in Striped Pyjamas, and I do not dislike such books. I simply do not love them. Love is a word filled with kindness and gratitude and caring; and while there was indeed a wonderful display of such emotions in The Boy in Striped Pyjamas, the over-riding sadness and certainty of that sadness simply cancelled that emotion out. Read The Boy in Striped Pyjamas yourself ... do you love it, or simply enjoy the book for telling a tale overflowing with sadness?

Of course the above begs the question, "What type of book do I prefer?" Once upon a time, when my hair was golden, not silver brushed with gold, I read widely, though upon reflection the choice was narrow. I preferred books that told real tales, biographies of people who discovered marvellous things, be that thing be land, or a discovery of the personal nature, or an invention. I read books about places; places I would have loved to visit, but never did; places that I desired to learn more about for obscure unknown reasons.

Why do some places attract one more than others?

Why does one book jump off the library shelf and not its neighbours?

Questions and more questions that may or may not have answers in books; but do we not search for books that add to our knowledge of how we personally desire the world to be?

Shopping Expedition

I don't know if others find themselves involved in a conversation they never started, nor indeed, to the best of their knowledge, invited. I have come to the conclusion it must have something to do with one's looks. By looks I do not mean beauty nor ugly; countenance might be the appropriate word.

Take this morning for instance.

We went to the city to indulge in a little shopping, more of a mid-week outing to be exact, as the cupboards were hardly bare. It is usual to shop at one of the two large supermarkets ... for a simple reason ... I know, more or less, where groceries such as I need are situated. [I dislike supermarkets who move their stock around in the hope the shopper will buy an item they had never considered before, and have been known to ask an assistant where the required item has been moved to, and while not whining about it, will make it known that I don't buy what I don't need ... isn't that what one can call shoppers' right?]

As the list was short today we opted for the 'other' supermarket; which does have rather tasty smoked fish that we buy periodically. Fish, bread buns, fruit and vegetables, yoghurt and milk, and because a large tin of coffee was on the special, that too was thrown in the trolley. Can I whisper in your ears that we already have four full tins of coffee in the pantry? One of which is a 750g tin, the others all 500g's ... you can surmise that coffee is one of the essentials in our house. Two apple crumble muffins somehow found their way into the trolley as well!

Up to the checkout we wander. Mid-week is relatively quiet in the supermarket; there were no queues of more than three people, but we chose one where only one shopper stood, and she was packing her purchases ready to exit the store.

The lady who was behind the checkout is usually on the 'Under 12 items checkout'. Even there, which is supposed to be the fast lane, she is quite chatty; today she was definitely chatty.

First let me describe her: short, dumpy is a word I should use, but will change that to cuddly which I trust you will realise might be how a man would see her; rings on all fingers [one notices such things at a checkout], extremely thin dark hair that has [in my opinion] seen too many tints and permanent waves and which is close to being like the eagle of America, but she is always cheerful and that surpasses any visual shortfalls. She has worked in this supermarket for forty years ... I was told this fact on at least two other occasions, so it must be a source of pride as it should be ... forty years in the same supermarket! She deserves a gold medal. Today she was in high form. She had not long returned from an eleven day holiday in Bali where many Australians go for a touch of the exotic [and Bali belly], close to home, with the added advantage of cheap air fares.

I asked [one must make conversation in these places otherwise it could be misconstrued as arrogance, or ignorance] how she enjoyed her holiday. The invitation was taken up. We were regaled with the highlights of her holiday, undertaken with three other ladies, of a similar vintage I surmised; two of whom were divorcees, and two, including our shop assistant, were widows. Seeing the glint in her eye, I enquired if she behaved herself. In smiling righteous indignation she laughed, and said they had! Now I must confess to be slightly surprised. However I smiled, inviting her to continue. They had changed hotels [she didn't mention why], drank wine with their meals but after two evenings of being offered such a tiny glass [and at this stage she demonstrated with her hand ... I imagined the old sherry glasses that we had a toast with at Christmas ... when we were only 12 or 13], and declared that they soon stopped buying that ... it was the same price as a proper wine glass. They indulged in a little sightseeing, a little drinking [oh she did mention that several times], and some shopping. She was obviously still coming down to earth from her holiday. I wondered whether it was my face that made her confide in me, or whether she told all her customers about her trip.

I like to think it was my countenance. But ... doesn't it make your day when you are given a glimpse through the window of another's life, especially holiday expeditions. From her remarks I gathered there was another holiday in Bali planned for the future.